Bitter Sweets
by Tetrahedrals
Summary: Garrus has always known his mother is sick. But there is a difference between knowing and -knowing-. For a long time, he and Sol keep up the facade that everything is all right at home, even in their own heads.


With Corpalis Syndrome, it is impossible to divide things up neatly into before and after. There is no abrupt switch, no sudden change where your mother goes to sleep at night and the woman who wakes up the next morning is a stranger. It is a creeping, insidious process of slipping away, as if your mother's body is a house she is slowly moving out of, coming back every now and then to take a piece of furniture, a treasured vase, a favorite item of clothing, until at last the house stands empty.

You try to keep her alive in memories, the way you would if she had died; how she'd drawl out her words when she was trying to keep from laughing, the silly jokes she told that always made you grin precisely because they weren't a bit funny, the way warmth and delight made her voice go up an octave when she called out your name. But time goes on, and bit by bit it is the other woman who's there with you, looking out in confusion from behind her eyes, messy and afraid and sometimes frightening. And inevitably, as the other woman grows increasingly familiar to you, it is your mother who becomes the stranger.

Garrus has always known his mother is sick. But there is a difference between knowing and _knowing_. For a long time, he and Sol keep up the facade that everything is all right at home, even in their own heads.

Then, in the year that he turns seven, his mother starts coming up with reasons she can't leave the house.

She's never been very social since their dad left, and they take mass transit to school, so it takes awhile before they really notice. There are little things, warning signs that they should see but don't, because it's easier not to see, to overlook the withered plants in the garden she no longer goes out to water, the trash piles that are collecting in the basement. She is very adept at inventing plausible reasons for them not to go out, and so without consciously acknowledging it, they alter their routine to reflect this new change, the way they've adjusted to all her other eccentricities. Garrus takes out the trash. Sol waters the garden.

When they start to run out of food, it becomes harder to ignore.

At first it's fun. They've never eaten so much take out in their lives, and they can't get enough of the greasy, salty delicacies, like fried _ovillam_, and savory _pullum_ skewers.

But she's been having trouble with her omnitool. Sometimes when they get home they find her staring at the display screen with a dazed, lost look on her face. Other times they catch her shouting at it, her voice hoarse with frustration. One night they notice it is gone from her wrist, and not for the first time Garrus feels a pang of alarm, but he doesn't say anything, and neither does Sol. They adapt to this, too.

She makes a series of at first creative and then increasingly strange dinners from the imperishables and condiments they have stored in the house. Some of these turn out to be a success, but most of the time they are about what you'd expect to get from mixing canned _raunari_ with pickled _orsisroot _and _garum _sauce. Sol never complains, so Garrus tries his best not to either. After all, it is harder on her than it is on them. Sol and Garrus get a meal at school, but their mother is wasting away.

There is a notable decline as the week draws on and there is less and less food.

The shameful thing is, they both know that they can end it at any time. The grocery store is near their school, they practically walk past it everyday. A quick stop on their way home and this new development can be just one more adjustment that they don't think about. But though they don't talk about it with each other, Garrus knows they are both secretly clinging to the same stubborn hope; that this crisis will be enough to snap her out of it. That if she's forced to choose between the nebulous fears the disease plants in mind and _feeding her children,_ she will pick them. That she still has the power to make that choice.

It's the end of the week. They watch her anxiously searching the house, checking and rechecking the shelves and storage until finally Sol breaks the rule they've been following for as long as he can remember. She steps forward slowly and carefully like she's approaching a wounded bird and says, tentatively, 'Hey, Mom, why don't we go to the grocery store?'

Their mother turns, says with a tremulous smile, 'Why of course, darling, what an excellent idea!' as if it's the most natural thing in the world. But their eyes are on her talons, which have begun distractedly worrying at the plates of her arms until the skin there is scratched and blue.

The next hour is unbearable, as they watch her slowly get herself ready, putting on her best clothes like they're going to Cipritine's finest opera house instead of just the shabby local grocery store, her hands trembling as she painstakingly does her make-up, frequently stopping to correct the lines she botches. At her side is the purse they got for her after the third time they found her half crying, half shouting at her omnitool, and she delves intently into its depths, checking and re-checking to make sure that she has the credit chit and the keys and the data pad that she keeps all her notes in. Clutching her bag tightly, she walks slowly up to the front door, each step heavy with dread. When she gets close enough to put a hand out and touch the access pad, a tremor goes through her and just like that they both know, she's not going to be able to do it. It is the defining moment for both of them, when '_our mother does not like to leave the house_' finally and irrevocable becomes '_our mother physically cannot leave the house_'. The former is a situation that can correct itself, something that can be excused, overlooked. The latter is something altogether different.

She turns back towards where they've been standing, watching her, and they can hear genuine bafflement in her voice when she says, 'I'm so sorry, my darlings, I just can't seem to focus tonight. I think it would be best if I… retired for the evening.' Her eyes catch theirs pleadingly. 'Would… would that be alright?'

Garrus is scared, and then angry. He wants to yell at her that he is hungry. That the other kids in school are giving him weird looks for showing up in unwashed clothes every day. That his teachers have started calling him in after class, asking pointed questions about his home life.

But Sol steps up.

"Of course, Mom, we'll be fine. You go and rest," she says reassuringly.

And Garrus watches his mother relax, her hands fluttering across Sol's forehead, before she slips away to her room.

Sol picks up the purse she's discarded by the door, with a sigh.

'C'mon Garrus,' she says quietly.

It's their first time eating out by themselves, and because there is no one to tell them not to, they go to the place they like best, a dessert cafe by the school where the older kids hang out.

They are both so hungry. Sol orders half the menu.

They do their best to ignore the questioning look their server gives them when he takes in their dirty clothes and lack of an adult guardian. Garrus silently mimics the haughty posture that Sol affects when the manager casually walks by 'just to make sure they have everything they need', both of them drawing themselves up to look at him scornfully as she hands over the credit chit connected to their father's account. Neither of them are citizens yet, and so they don't technically have a rank, but as the children of a 23rd tier officer they get away with more than they should. Garrus does a poor job of stifling laughter at the change in the manager's attitude, but Sol never cracks, just stares at him icily as he hastily backs away.

They eat more in that one night than they have all week, until they are past full and groaning, pushing the food around their plates as the dishes pile up. Later on Sol will become more practical, making him eat vegetables, brush his teeth, do his homework, their lives revolving around a never-ending list of rules and chores that she creates in lieu of an actual adult to guide them. Over the years he will watch his big sister harden herself to a knife's edge, cutting down everyone around her with sharp words, any gentleness and patience she has left reserved solely for their mother. But on this night they are both still just two kids out on the town with their parents' credit chit, and her arm is wrapped tight around his shoulders as they sit at the booth together, devouring plate after plate of sweets.


End file.
